


holding ice cubes to keep yourself sane

by neonpython



Series: bath bombs & whiskey [3]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mild Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, References to Depression, Roommates, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Undiagnosed Issues, am I projecting? you’ll never know, bad is my comfort character okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:07:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonpython/pseuds/neonpython
Summary: Bad never thought people noticed the unhealthy things he did, until someone does.CW in notes
Relationships: Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Series: bath bombs & whiskey [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068248
Comments: 22
Kudos: 300





	holding ice cubes to keep yourself sane

**Author's Note:**

> in case you haven’t read my dnf fic let the sun in, this is bad’s story of how he and Skeppy began dating. it’s a standalone, so you don’t need to read it to understand this, but I’d appreciate it if you read that one too!  
> putting the warnings here cuz they’re a lot: explicit acts of self harm, suicidal thoughts, self deprecation, mental health issues, undiagnosed mental illness, mention of past suicide attempts  
> DO NOT READ IF YOU THINK THIS COULD TRIGGER YOU  
> your health is more important than some shitty brain rot angst

_The reflection of the half moon sends a curtain of light through Bad’s open window._ Cold air seeps through his skin into his bones, the shivers unrelenting. His body, slumped against the foot of his bed, sits still while his mind rocketeers through the stratosphere. He stares into the darkness, hand clamped around the blade poking into his palm.

There’s no reason for him to feel this way. This sick aftertaste of nothingness. His career has been doing well, he has plenty of friends to lean on, and his small community of loyal fans keeps growing. Rat is the best companion he could ever ask for. The new home he has is beautiful and shared with his favorite person in the world. Bad knows he’s privileged compared to most people. He knows he should be feeling something. Anything.

Maybe that’s the issue. The guilt that Bad’s living a life he didn’t earn, with friends too close, too kind to be around and fans who don’t have the full picture of him yet care for him and hold him as an idol. He hasn’t won this prize. This gift of life. Other people deserve the luck of a loving platform more than he does. They should have his status and wealth. All he deserves is pain.

Instead of pain, he feels the vacancy in his chest deepen, a bottomless pit expanding beyond his rib cage prison bars and infecting the rest of his body. Emptiness is painful. The stretch of darkness swallows him whole, extinguishing any small blink of hope or joy he had. That is painful, but it’s not real pain. It’s only in his head, and the more he breathes, the more it hurts.

A proper diagnosis still eludes him, even after years of being an adult with access to therapy and psychiatric care. But every time Bad books an appointment or finds a therapist covered by his insurance, he chickens out. He doesn’t know if he can stomach giving his knotted ball of thoughts a real world presence. If he really _was_ sick, he would’ve been diagnosed by now. Or he would’ve been successful in the past. 

“Just once,” he promises himself. “One little cut. Then you can go clean.”

Bad loosens his grip and stares at the metal glinting in pale light. He pushes his long sleeve up to his elbow, tracing at the uneven tally marks already marking his skin. At this point in his life, he’s desensitized to the view. Even when he was at his happiest, when the heavy emptiness was a speck, he still stared at them sometimes, unwavered by the silent story they told every time he wore a short sleeved shirt. 

At least now he can go a week or two wearing nothing but long sleeves while his inflictions healed. Even with the hot July weather, Bad never leaves the house anyways, and with Skeppy being a polar bear who keeps the AC on the highest setting all day, he has an excuse. 

He chooses his spot, a rectangle of untouched skin between scars, and presses the tip of the blade there. It’s been a while since the last time, which was supposed to stay the last time. But that’s what he told himself every time before, and will probably continue to later on. Bad tried going cold turkey, and it worked. The longest he went between relapses was a year and a half. 

Nothing good lasts.

The drag of the blade still shocked him every time. Bad clenches his jaw, forcing down the sharp gasp of breath from the sting shooting up his arm. He forces his hand to move parallel to the scars, adding another.

Pain isn’t what gives him the demented burst of dopamine that act releases. He doesn’t like the aftermath. But it’s the only thing that grounds him in reality. His mind is like space, no gravity and no direction. The aching in his wrists gives him purchase when he loses himself in nothing but ink and loneliness. Even the scars alone help him remember where he’s been, what he’s gone through, and where he can go. 

As he lifts the blade away, the layer under the opened skin turns pale. Bad watches as that milky space turns crimson with rising blood. Another empty spot ready to be opened, halfway down his arm. All of them are different. Some bleed instantly. Others take a while. He hates that he knows there’s a difference, and how to make them different.

Just to prove how sick he is, Bad has parts of his arms that he prefers more than others. His scars collect more against the outside of his wrist, on the bone, as it burns less and the scars are more visible. The inside of his wrist, just soft pale flesh, is only for the bad times. Those are the days where he could go through with it, if he wanted to. Turn that exacto-knife horizontal and let his misery and pain and fear and guilt drain out of him.

Bad doesn’t do this.

Instead, he takes a breath, tears forcing themselves down his cheeks, and adds a third. Then a fourth, and stops at five because his arm is quivering under the strain. He exhales in a hiss, the stinging settling in.

Strings of red pearls collect into a pool before running down his forearm to his carpet. He’ll clean it later, if he remembers. It’s not a big enough stain for any casual looker to notice. Once he stops himself from shaking, Bad wipes the blood off the metal with his thumb. He rises from the carpet and trudges out of his room to the bathroom.

Despite having this unhealthy habit for years and not properly caring for himself, Bad has never gotten an infection. He’s careful, sure, but not attentive with the healing process. The only time he’s ever gotten close to danger was so long ago he hardly remembers the details. What he does remember, it hurts.

Deep blue light comes in from under Skeppy’s cracked door. He must be up late editing a video again. Bad will reprimand him later, telling him to adhere to a sleeping schedule now that they’re living under the same roof. The thought of his friend’s face, pouting and silly at his request, gives him a half smile.

He scolds himself for the guilt that seeps through his calming anxieties and continues with the task at hand. 

The bathroom light blinds him when he flicks it on. Bad blinks, fumbling for the faucet, and turns the handle. As the water warms up, he sticks his forearm underneath, watching the water stain pink then clear. He tears a paper towel off the roll and pats down the length of his arm, pulling the sleeve over the monstrous sight, and drops the blade into the sink drawer, hidden beneath the conglomeration of tiny dentist toothpastes, broken combs, and for some reason, a half melted candle.

Once the blade is hidden well, Bad returns to his bed, curling up beneath his thick duvet, eyes dry and heavy. Somehow, sleep comes to claim him, and he welcomes it with open arms.

\--

The mornings after are the hardest parts of the process. Guilt of his actions sinks in, and he cries when he sees himself in the mirror. Dried blood glues the inside of his shirt to his skin, the dark blue fabric nearly giving away what he did. He grits his teeth as he pulls the sleeve loose. The throbbing begins.

Despite the warm beckoning of his bed, Bad eventually leaves his room, making a beeline for the kitchen. Skeppy is already up, cooking breakfast.

Paranoia glimmers through his excitement of seeing his new roommate. Every glance his way from Skeppy leaves him wondering if, somehow, he knows what he did, and if he’s going to send him away to a facility forever. Bad doesn’t want to go to a hospital. He hates that. He doesn’t need to. He’s fine.

Skeppy glances over his shoulder, pursed lips slowly spreading into a grin. He looks cute in a long sleeve and basketball shorts. 

“I’m making omelets,” he offers, gesturing with the pan in his hand.

Bad sits at their small breakfast nook, curling his arms into himself. “Thanks, Zak.”

“It still sounds super weird to hear you call me that.” Skeppy chuckles, folding the egg pancake in half. “Does that mean I have to call you Darryl?”

“Please don’t.”

They exchange a bout of laughter. Bad almost forgets why he’d done what he did, and bounces in his chair when his roommate plops the fresh breakfast down. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until it’s in front of him. His stomach growls with anticipation as Skeppy slips into the seat beside him, handing him a fork.

“What’s it like being back in Florida?” Bad asks, cutting his omelet into thin slivers with the side of his fork.

Skeppy stabs the hash brown and chomps down, smiling with his cheeks bulging. “It’s a lot warmer here than in LA, but I like it. It’s nice.”

“Too bad we were the only ones able to get out of our leases.”

He shrugs, head tilting to the side. Bad traces his eyes over his skin, tan and glowing in the midday sunlight. Dark eyes squinting with thought as he talks about their other friends who were meant to move in with them, about what to do with the empty bedroom while they wait for their potential future roommates.

Bad loves to listen to him speak. Skeppy could go on for hours, talking about everything and nothing, and still have something to say. He’s an atom bomb of speech. It’s a comforting thing, to just listen and focus only on his voice, his laughter, his mannerisms.

When Skeppy had first asked him to move in together, Bad had been hesitant. He wasn’t like the others, he was reserved and awkward, better at a distant friendship and not someone being around every minute of every day. Especially now, with quarantine, they would have no escape from each other. Bad feared, at first, that they would get annoyed at each other and move out almost immediately, friendship ruined and nowhere to live. 

Fortunately, Skeppy’s a great roommate. They split everything evenly. Chores, bills, food. Rat and Rocco get along famously. Their video ideas now expand to pranking each other while streaming. Dinners aren’t as lonely as before, and he has a reason to leave his room.

But it’s getting harder and harder to keep secrets from him.

When they finish, Skeppy washes the dishes while Bad dries and puts away. 

“Hey, you wanna go to a park?” Skeppy asks. “I need to get out of the house.”

Bad hums softly, tucking the forks into the drawer. “Yeah, that sounds nice. Let me shower first.”

The small inkling of terror carrying him to the bathroom dissolves when he locks the door behind him. Dark blood cakes the inside of his wrists. Hot water washes away the sins of the night before, no evidence left behind except his healing wounds.

\--

Bad loves his friends. He does. The time spent with them are his favorite moments. Spending time on the SMP, streaming Among Us, and recording manhunts. If he could spend the rest of his life doing nothing but creating with his friends, he could.

But.

There’s always a but.

Exhaustion takes over every time he turns off his camera. Every log on, log off, drains him. The amount of effort to keep the cheer, the filter, the light voice that eludes any darkness. It reminds him of the things that he really shouldn’t have. Why can't he just enjoy the luck he’s had? Bad knows he hides it well, and he wants it to stay that way, but sometimes all he wants to do is drop the facade and scream at the top of his lungs.

He holds it together, thin threaded nerves keeping his composure, and lives for the quiet moments when nothing happens.

Another thing he loves is routine.

Skeppy pulls Bad into movie nights in a ritualistic fashion. The two sit on opposite ends of their couch, a buttered popcorn bowl between them, with soda and alcohol filling their low wooden coffee table. They play jackbox games with their friends over video calls on the days they’re all available and enjoy the honeymoon phase of their new home.

Mornings are his favorite times of the day. They integrate a wordless pattern, switching breakfast making and silently creating routines around each other. Bad likes to make pancakes and waffles, while Skeppy excels at french toast. Cereal and pizza rolls for the lazy days. Coffee preferences are quickly memorized.

Lunch is either nonexistent or a lone trial. Dinner repeats the same swapping of duties as breakfast does, though they always eat out on the weekends. Bad falls in love with Skeppy’s spicy chicken curry. His alfredo sauce and spaghetti is his proudest dish to make. Though they both rival over who’s the better cook, their best dinners are a team effort.

Living with someone is a hard change to make from being alone as now Bad is aware of his lack of solitude. Sometimes, he walks through the house singing, forgetting that Skeppy is recording in the other room. Skeppy will burst into his room wearing a ridiculous outfit for a video, and Bad will have to rapidly turn his facecam before his fans see. They’ve both gotten fast at muting while streaming. 

One thing Bad will never adjust to, however, is how touchy Skeppy becomes over the course of a few weeks. There’s subtle nudges when they’re in the kitchen together, his head propped against Bad’s shoulder to look at whatever video recordings, the head leans while watching movies. Bad is a huge cuddler, there’s no doubt about it, but it surprises him to learn that Skeppy loves touching and being touched.

He admires the fondness of Skeppy’s tugs when he tries to get his attention, though the fear of being caught always lingers. Even when the cuts scab and turn to fresh pink scars, he still wonders when. One day, Bad will flinch when he touches his wrist and Skeppy will notice. One day, the curtain will drop. 

Good thing Bad is a good liar. People don’t realize it as he’s also talkative enough to never keep a secret, but he can close like a bear trap when needed. He’s got plenty of things he will take to his grave. 

\--

August is warm, and Bad begins to run out of excuses.

Allergies are to blame for his red eyes, not the deep terror and empty sadness gnawing at his insides. He’s cold, not scarred. Bad blames everything except himself, and nobody is the wiser.

More scars fill up the empty spaces, and shame replaces the fading pain. Bad wants to do it again. He needs to. A nervous itch settles beneath his skin, threatening to tear itself outside if he doesn’t release it himself. But he can’t. Every time he promises himself will be the last, and secrecy is not something he wants to live with. Past years have taught him how unhealthy it is, and he can’t handle the guilt any more. Relapses happen, he knows, but that doesn’t mean he can give into it. Temptation draws him close. Sometimes he loses the ongoing battle, but he manages to not go too deep when he does. 

One night, Bad gets close to breaking skin. It leaves an indent, not a cut, when he can full his hand away. He stares at his wrist, scarred but not broken, and the invasion of dark thought sends cracks in his persona, the one he carries around even with Skeppy. As he drops the blade, disappearing into the carpet, Bad starts to sob. The numb throbbing makes him nauseous. Guilt of the life he doesn't deserve, the happiness he didn’t earn, pushes against his ribcage, attempting to break out. He tries to be quiet, but his slip of character shatters the silence of midnight. 

“Bad?” The whisper makes him look up. Skeppy stands at the open door, pajamas ruffled and eyes lidded. “Is something wrong?”

Cold hands clutch his biceps. He doesn’t want to be alone, but it can’t be him. Skeppy can’t be the one to see him this way. Something shifts behind Skeppy’s eyes, and he blinks, wide awake now. The concern in his eyes makes Bad wish he’d gone deeper. 

“Do you need a hug?” He asks.

Despite the obvious distress he’s in, Skeppy doesn’t step inside, only standing at the doorway with a wavering inquiry. The threshold of their rooms is holy and unbroken. Bad hasn’t been in Skeppy’s, and Skeppy hasn’t been in his. That’s not going to change now.

“I- I’m okay,” Bad forces out.

“You don’t sound okay.”

The persistence of Skeppy’s voice is daggers into his lungs. Bad slowly unravels his curled body and gets to his feet. Even though the masochistic side of him wants to wallow in his own misery, cry himself to sleep, his friend’s presence is an instance of distraction. His lungs ease up on their assault against his ribs. 

Skeppy watches him, waiting until Bad stumbles out of his bedroom to the living room before following close behind. Twilight’s lunar glow leads him to the kitchen. He sits down on the kitchen island stool, Skeppy standing across from him. They don’t look each other in the eye.

They’ve lived together for three months. Bad’s kept his face well hidden. The most serious conversation they’ve had is deciding whether or not their tetris lamps ruin the aesthetic of their living room. This is a path untread. 

“I’ve never seen you like this before.” Skeppy breaches the surface. 

Their eyes flicker up simultaneously and freeze when they meet.

“You weren’t supposed to.” Bad keeps his gaze, afraid to look away. “I’m sorry to wake you.”

“I wasn’t asleep. Do you… do you need anything?”

“Can I have hot chocolate?” It’s a silly request, but the smile that Skeppy sends him makes it worth it.

“Of course.”

He reaches across the kitchen island and cradles Bad’s cheek. It’s just for a second. Skeppy pulls away before he can lean into it, moving to prepare the drink. That touch, so simple and so warm, draws out the buildup of emotion Bad had kept to himself. The shaking begins at his fingers, racing up his arms and spreading like a virus through his entire body.

By the time Skeppy turns around, chocolate packet in hand, Bad is fully weeping, salt in his mouth and nose and lungs. 

“Oh my god, Darryl, are you okay?”

Skeppy’s hands are on his face again, holding him up as he disintegrates. Bad convulses and drowns himself in emotion. 

Now Skeppy knows. Skeppy will leave him. Everyone will leave him. His fans will know he’s a fraud, a liar, someone who has so many screws loose he can’t even stop himself from hurting himself. He’ll lose everything he has. But he doesn't even deserve any of this. Not the millions of followers caring for him, not the selfless friends ready to help, not the best person in his world trying to calm him down. Maybe this is the downfall of a caricature he’s kept up for years. His magnum opus, burned at the stake. 

Skeppy’s hesitant instructions for him to breathe have no effect. The words fall onto deaf, ringing ears. Bad digs his nails into his forearm, trying to ground himself long enough to listen to Skeppy. Even that glimmer of familiar pain, the tool he’s used for years, isn’t enough.

His skin is cold, dry, too tight for his skeleton. Every part of him is vibrating with shockwaves of panic. Bad is a corpse, bloated and bursting. Icy hot terror crawls over the surface of his skin. 

Hands run down from his face to his shoulders, and Bad gasps out a sob as Skeppy wraps his arms around him, face buried into the cool flesh of his neck. He’s warm. So, so warm.

Slowly, the warmth travels through Bad’s body, the excess energy ebbing out of him, like water out a brain. After a few minutes, his lungs allow him to bring in air. Bad inhales, bringing his arms up to hug Skeppy back.

“I’m sorry.” His voice is muffled by Skeppy’s shirt.

“It’s okay. Did you have a panic attack?” Skeppy pulls back, thumbs wiping away his tears.

“I dunno. I- I’ve never had one before,” Bad says. “I mean, I don’t think I have.”

“How do you feel now?”

He finally registers the heaviness of his eyelids. “Tired.”

“Do you still want that hot chocolate?”

Bad gives a meek nod. When Skeppy pulls away to make it, he follows. He stands with his arms loose on Skeppy’s hips, head pressed into the base of his spine.

“You’re stealing my heat, you vampire.” Skeppy speaks softly as he puts the milk to warm up on a pot.

“Cold.”

When he turns, he takes Bad’s hands into his own. Something stirs, deep in his gut, and Bad is enraptured by him. The moonlight makes his eyes turn into discs of burnt umber, squinting with a comforting welcome. Skeppy smells like chocolate and sleep. “You’re cold?”

A soft blush heats his cheeks as Bad realizes he’s staring. “Sorry, this is weird. Maybe I should just go to bed-”

Skeppy pulls him back to their previous position when Bad tries to walk away, bodies close to being pressed together. “Don’t be sorry. We all have bad days, I don’t expect you to be any different. You don’t need to apologize for having negative emotions.”

“But look at me. I’m supposed to be a happy beacon. I can’t be not happy,” Bad weakly argues.

“Of course you can. Nobody expects you to keep up the smiles all the time. It’s okay to be sad sometimes. And if you ever feel not happy, you know you can talk to me.”

Bad sniffles. “Thank you.”

Skeppy finishes the chocolate, having made two cups. It’s sweet enough to overwhelm his mouth, mini marshmallows floating atop the murky surface. Bad allows the liquid happiness to fill him. Despite the late hours, Skeppy insists on staying on the couch, and they fall asleep, heads leaning against each other and blankets thrown over their laps. 

For the first time in years, Bad doesn’t spend the night alone. 

\--

Bad all but forgets about the incident, filing it with other embarrassing moments he’d rather pretend never happened. It’s not a bad memory, but he’s not accustomed to being vulnerable in front of people. Skeppy doesn’t treat him any different, which was his biggest worry, but he does seem to catch onto when he has bad nights. They don’t happen any more frequently than before, but now whenever Bad spends too long in the bathroom, Skeppy is waiting for him in the living room with two cups of hot chocolate.

Another thing is added to their routine. Bad never tells him when he feels like slicing his skin apart, but Skeppy knows. He picks up on the more than silent nights and the tense grins tossed to him during dinner. Small gestures of comfort appear around the house. A coke appears on his desk during a streaming bathroom break when they’d supposedly run out. Bags of M&M’s happen to land in his chair. Hot chocolate waits for him when he’s spent himself of tears.

He loves and hates how much Skeppy cares. The two sides of him battle to confess his crimes and force a moat between them. Build watchtowers and impenetrable walls. Bad wants to be more honest with him, but simply allowing himself to be sad around Skeppy is the closest to the truth as he can muster. 

Though he has support now, the thoughts don’t leave. Bad days are prevalent. Darkness still soaks into his mind, and those days it’s hard to fight off the impulses. For Skeppy’s sake more than his own, Bad looks for other ways to cope that don’t result in blood.

He tries rubber bands. Ironically enough, it hurts too much for him, and it’s hard to snap them without the sound drawing attention. Drawings on his skin is fun, but doesn’t give him the same… release. Bad still does it sometimes, though. 

Ice is an accidental remedy. He’s researching something for the SMP lore when he comes across a video about methods to curve the urges. It includes the rubber bands, the drawing, and a few other methods he’d never heard of. The next time Skeppy’s out of the house, Bad tries it.

The cold burn on his palm is instant relief. His knuckles tinge pink, the ice melting and shrinking under his death grip. Bad watches with some sick satisfaction at the puddle forming at his feet, the pain numbing his fingers and water dripping between his fingers. When they’re gone, he grabs two more, repeating the process until it becomes unbearable.

\--

When the weather dips into the sixties, Bad decides to finally get out of the house and go grocery shopping. The cool air does him good, and Rat enjoys the scenery via car ride. Shopping doesn’t take long, and although he’s only gone for at least thirty minutes, the silence in the house when he returns almost convinced him it’s been hours. Rat scrambles in before him, scurrying off to presumably find Rocco.

He plops down the bags on the kitchen counter, halfheartedly searching for his roommate. “Skep? Can you help me with the groceries?”

After no response, Bad shrugs it off, figuring Skeppy’s busy with a video, and goes back to his car to grab the rest of his bags. When he reenters, Skeppy’s in the kitchen. His face is flattened with a fear Bad has never seen on him before. Hands shake at his sides, eyes wide and staring accusingly at him.

“Sorry to bother you, I got a case of water in the trunk and it’s- oof!”

Before Bad can finish his sentence, Skeppy crosses the room, slamming into him with a restricting hug. He holds him so tight his back pops, as close as they can get. Bad yelps, hands trapped at his sides. 

“Woah, what’s wrong?” He asks.

“You could’ve told me.” Skeppy’s voice is glass shards, piercing his skin. “Darryl, I could’ve helped you.”

Bad doesn’t need any more information than that. He knows what he’s talking about. Still, the question slips between his teeth. 

“What’re you talking about?”

Skeppy thrusts space between them, fury in his eyes. “Don’t act dumb.” His words are venom. “I found it in the drawer.”

The tears are cold and infrequent, but are there nonetheless. Bad stammers out excuses, but they’re weak fragments of sentences. There’s no way to explain. He can’t find the words to tell him how since he was a kid, he’d felt so alone and broken inside that he had no choice but to take it out on himself. That the entire world has blessed him with a treasure trove most would kill for, yet true joy still eludes him. 

Instead of speaking, he presses his forehead into Skeppy’s shoulder, excuses morphing into whispered apologies. 

They drift back to the kitchen island, both sitting side by side atop the tall stools. Skeppy grips Bad’s wrists and looks up at him for permission. Shame drives his gaze downward. Wordlessly, he nods.

He never paid attention to how many scars he had. It was never quantity that mattered, moreso their appearance. The evidence of growth, proof that he was a bad person. Just the thought of his preferences, the way he sees them, makes him sick with remorse.

Once Skeppy finishes rolling up Bad’s sleeves, he stops breathing. Bad can see him holding his breath, chest unmoving. His eyes don’t waver as his trembling fingers trace over the newer ones, still rose colored and wrinkled. They travel over the old scars, a collection of intricate tally marks added on over years and years. Skeppy stops at the one Bad refuses to acknowledge.

It’s the deepest cut he’s ever done. The scar is an inch wide, and though it’s gotten thinner over time and blends in better with his skin tone, it still stands out a lot more than the rest. Bad remembers the night he’d done it; he was thirteen, so young and barely clinging to life. Thoughts of ending the pain, the ache, the numb remembrance of his worthless existence flooded him, attacking him from all sides until that pencil sharpener blade transferred from his wrists to his throat. He sat there in his childhood bedroom, blinded by tears, trying to find some reason not to just get it over with.

Skeppy’s fingertips graze the ravaged skin. He touches every single scar, moving up his right arm before switching to the left. Neither breathes as he travels up, down, down, up, and stops at Bad’s elbow. The exhale is an invited act.

“Are there any more?” He asks.

“Where else would I- oh.” Hot shame floods Bad’s cheeks. “Y-yeah.”

“Show me.”

He chuckles, brimming with nervous energy. “That’s little forward of you. You do know that they’re on-”

_“Show me.”_

The demand in Skeppy’s tone short circuits his brain. A feeling unknown to him starts to swell up in his chest, a lead balloon filling the empty cavity. It is hot and heavy beneath his heart.

Bad slides his arms out of his grasp. “No. Don’t you get how humiliating and personal this is to me? You don’t get to demand me to show you anything.”

“Why not? It’s not just hurting you.”

“You don’t think I know that? You think I don't realize what would happen if people knew? I know I’m selfish, I know this hurts those closest to me, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before, Zak. All the guilt tripping excuses to keep me on suicide watch, to berate me without consequence, to do everything except get me actual help. Don’t make me feel any worse than I already do. That’s why nobody was supposed to find out. You weren’t supposed to-”

The rest of his rant turns into a flurry of syllables, barely words at that point. He recognizes that feeling now. An old stream had left him shaking after the teasing had gotten too much, a stream of spammed messages bombarding his otherwise calm experience. The fans knew he’d begun crying, and he tried to play it off, though he had to end early due to being overwhelmed. As soon as he was alone in his bedroom, severing his connection to the outside world, he snapped his keyboard. It was an accident, but he remembers the keys popping out, scattering against the carpet. Rat tried to eat the space bar.

Now, staring at Skeppy with that same boiling indignation, Bad feels enraged.

The edges of his friend’s expression soften. When he stops ranting, not realizing he’d been shouting. Skeppy’s hand slips up his arm and rests on the back of his neck. 

“I’m sorry.” Bad believes him. “I didn’t mean to sound so pushy, I’ve been in this situation before. I’m just… I don’t know. Scared, I guess?”

“You don’t need to be. Promise.” The anger is swept away by the simplicity of his smile.

“I don’t trust you,” Skeppy says. Despite the severity of his words, they’re airy, almost a joke. Bad wants to laugh but can’t find it in himself. “Can I… can I see?”

The blush returns. “Are you sure?” He asks. 

“I should be asking you that.”

Bad gently guides him back to his room. He sits on his bed, Skeppy stopping at the doorway. It’s an unspoken rule, a wall yet destroyed. With a swift nod, it’s torn down.

It’s one thing to show the scars on his arms to anyone. To strip to his boxers and expose even more scars, that takes willpower he almost doesn’t have.

His jeans are discarded to the floor, and Bad awkwardly covers himself with his hands, nervously watching Skeppy’s face. He wonders if he hates him, if this will be the tipping point of their friendship. Skeppy stares with an awe Bad doesn’t expect. Something shifts in his eyes, and they flicker up and down his body, not just trained on the nasty, wide marks on his inner thighs.

He meets Bad’s nervous gaze. “Is this too much?”

“Yeah,” Bad admits, lifting his legs to his chest. “I’ve never… nobody’s ever seen them before.”

“So, the internet’s wrong? Badboyhalo’s a virgin?”

The joke is uncalled for, but it makes him laugh.

“I never said I was,” he says, immediately shutting himself up when Skeppy’s eyebrows rise.

Skeppy rubs his chin, eyes continuing their travel.

“What?” Bad asks. 

“Nothing. Just- you know they don’t make you ugly.”

He tilts his head forward to lie on his knees. “Okay.”

“Your scars- they don’t make you any less… lovable.”

“I don’t-”

“You’re still beautiful.” The words seem to surprise even Skeppy. “I mean look at you. You’re gorgeous, Bad.”

“Sh-shut up.”

Suddenly, Skeppy is in front of him, on his knees, hands nudging his legs down. Bad tenses, the proximity giving him an extra shot of adrenaline, and allows tan hands to travel up his calves, calloused palms scratching against his knees. When his thumbs graze the fleshy inside of his thighs, shockwaves run up Bad’s body, live wires touching metal. It takes most of his self control to not squirm.

Watching Skeppy touch him in this way, so intimate and so kind, makes something shift inside of him. Gears click into place. His eyes go wide with a sudden realization, tense thighs relaxing under his hands. Bad trusts him. He loves him.

 _He loves him._ The words are a secret to himself. 

“How can I help?” Skeppy asks, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

Bad opens his mouth, tongue dry and throat tight. “I don’t- I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m- I’m so sorry.”

His words become nothing but muffled moans into fabric and Skeppy pulls him back into a tight embrace, an all-consuming warmth. He feels like home. Minutes past, or maybe hours, but Bad doesn’t care. All he cares about is holding Skeppy forever, and never letting go.

\--

Skeppy insists on therapy. Bad has never been before, so he can’t help but be scared of the formally dressed woman sitting across from him. Her face is covered by a Winnie the Pooh mask but her eyes convey a smile.

“So, Mr. Noveschosch,” she begins, tapping her pen against her notepad. “What did you book this session for? Anything in particular?”

Bad doesn’t divulge his secrets just yet, though he enjoys talking to her. Doctor Card leaves him at ease. He talks to her about what bothers him, the feelings hard to put into proper words, and the struggle he has to keep himself motivated. They avoid the topic of his scars, but he knows she notices. She’s a professional, after all.

After two weeks, he gets a diagnosis he doesn’t expect.

“Clinical depression?” Skeppy reads aloud, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “Like the meme?”

“Yes, like the meme.” Bad snatches the paper from his hands. 

“Did you get a prescription or something?”

“No. Not yet, at least. She wanted to work a little more together.”

He hums and settles his arms around Bad’s shoulders, nose prodding at his spine. “I’m glad you’re finally getting help.”

“All because of you,” Bad reminds him.

\--

September is a melting pot of good and bad.

Bad never believed in the phrase ‘it gets worse before it gets better’ until it happens to him.

The beginning of recovery is a rough slope downwards. With his therapy sessions come new feelings being dredged up he didn’t realize were impacting him so badly. They hover around him like moths around a lamp, nipping and flapping against the exterior of his mind. No matter what he does and where he is, Bad can’t avoid them. Confronting them is something he’s supposed to be working on, but he can’t even accept that they’re his own thoughts.

Being diagnosed with depression explains a lot, but it can’t be true. He’s supposed to be the happy one. Bad is supposed to be a positive force of light, making people feel better when they don’t feel like smiling. How can he help others when his own mind fights against him?

Their ice machine runs out quicker than usual. Skeppy doesn’t mind finding random puddles around the house, but Bad feels guilty for needing him to clean up after him. He just doesn’t have the energy to do it himself. Bad makes it up by baking muffins as thanks.

Skeppy hides all the sharp objects once he becomes aware of the ice method. At first, Bad feels bitter for him thinking he’s so dangerous he’d use just anything. That’s until he’s tearing their bathroom apart in search of a shaving razor. The comedown from that particular day is unbearable, Skeppy holding him as he sobs in the hallway leading to the bathroom. But Bad’s not alone this time around.

A mental hospital is out of the question. Bad refuses to go. He hates the hospital, for one, and he’s not that bad off. There hasn’t been enough tragedy, enough trauma in his life for him to even consider it an option. The decision is his own, and he decides he’d rather not. Reluctantly, Skeppy agrees.

The stagnancy between the spiral and the rise is a relief to the both of them.

“What is the worst thing you’ve ever done?” Bad asks one day.

“Uh, not sure.” The two are on the couch, Skeppy’s legs propped up on Bad’s lap. “I used to bully kids in middle school, but when I moved to Dubai, I realized it was wrong and stopped.” 

“You? A bully? No.” Sarcasm drips off of Bad’s words, smiling at his roommate’s unamused face. 

“Okay, Mr. Halo. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

He knew Skeppy would ask. Bad takes a breath, drumming his fingers along Skeppy’s calves. 

“Besides, you know, the scars? I- I…” He has to tell him. Even if Skeppy hated him. The secret will poison the rest of his mind is he doesn’t let it loose. “When I was fourteen, I gave my girlfriend a note.”

That’s all he can manage, and he hopes Skeppy understands the implications. Bad avoids the stare he knows he’s getting.

“You what?” Skeppy’s voice is a drop away from betrayal. 

“Please don't hate me.”

“I could never hate you.” A hand gently turns Bad’s chin so he faces Skeppy. “Why would you ever do that?”

“I was a sad and angry kid. The world was against me, you know how middle schoolers are. I kind of deserved her breaking up with me after that. It still hurts, though. Can you believe that? This happened when I was fourteen, a decade ago, and I can’t get over my first ever girlfriend because I was a toxic asshole who didn’t realize that my actions hurt others. I did that to myself, and I was so prepared to die with this secret. I was so ready to… to…”

Bad starts laughing, then crying. Skeppy holds him. The weight of the secret falls away, and he sobs with relief and terror. Someone else knows, and he’s still there. He can feel Skeppy’s hands gently carding through his hair, whispering to him like he’s another wonder of the world. 

“It’s okay, Bad,” he says, breath tickling his neck. “You can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m not going anywhere.”

\--

A steady decline of the temperature comes with the gaps between Skeppy and Bad getting closer.

After having that big secret dumped at his feet, Skeppy seems to have gotten even more touchy than before. He takes any opportunity to brush his fingers along Bad’s arm, softly moving him by the hips to get past, even straight up holding his hand during dinner. The touches are feathery and cautious, but Skeppy doesn’t treat him like cracked glass. More like a renaissance painting, something precious that’s meant to be cared for. Not afraid to break him, just of worsening the damage already there.

Routines are kept, but evolve with new revelations. Credits roll of the horror movie they’d just finished watching. Bad is on one side of the couch, Skeppy on the other, popcorn bowl in the middle. They never watch the credits, but neither wants to move first. The two have been inseparable all day, never not touching, with Bad’s head on his shoulder and Skeppy’s arm around his waist. 

Once the screen goes dark, Bad decides to get ready for bed as it’s almost one in the morning, standing and stretching his arms out in front of him. A hand shoots up to grab his wrist. Skeppy’s eyes burn with a brilliant revelation, fingers dark against pale skin. Bad gently tugs, but he doesn’t let go.

“What?” He chuckles, confused.

“Don’t go.”

Bad grabs the bowl, setting it between the empty beer bottle, and sits down beside his friend, sides flush against one another. When Skeppy doesn’t release his hand, Bad asks if there’s something wrong.

“This is going to be a weird question,” he begins, lips hardly moving, “but do you trust me?”

The question is ridiculous to Bad. “Of course I do.”

“Okay.” Skeppy’s eyes flicker down. “Okay.”

Before Bad can ask what he means, Skeppy’s lips are on his own. A thunderstorm roars in Bad’s head, sparks and lightning igniting parts of him he never thought existed. It lasts a few seconds, but he refuses to let go just yet. As soon as Skeppy pulls away, Bad moves in to close the space, free hand tangling into the hair on the back of his neck. 

They fit together easily, like the universe made them to be with each other in this way.

He revels in the feeling of finally belonging somewhere with someone. Skeppy leans forward, slowly and steadily, until Bad finds himself on his back, pressed into the soft maroon cushions with the person he loves hovering above him. The shitty dim living room lights send halos around Skeppy’s head. Beams shine through his tousled hair. Bad cards his hand through the dark strands, watching as he sighs with a contentment, eyes fluttering closed.

“Let me touch you.” His words are a wish ready to be granted. 

Bad nods, and when he doesn’t move, he gives a quiet affirmation. Soft lips find his own again, bodies pressed together in synchronicity. Head to chest to toes, their equal heights give them perfect range of each other. Skeppy’s hands lose themselves in the fabric of Bad’s shirt, raising it to expose his sides to the air. He gasps into his mouth as fingers dance along his jutting ribs, unintentionally deepening the kiss and allowing access. 

The vents blow warm air around, setting their skin on fire. Bad gets his hands free and places them on the back of Skeppy’s head, unsure where else to put them. Rough fingertips memorize the expanse of Bad’s skin, leaves trails of lightning scars behind, and Bad wishes they’d done this sooner and not months after living together.

He’s breathless and dizzy. Bad pulls back to get air into his lungs, Skeppy breathing just as heavily. His eyes are dark pools of want and love, cutting into the center of his chest and making a home there. And Bad lets him.

“I love you,” he whispers, voice rough like he’s never spoken before.

They’ve said it on streams, during quiet nights, within friendly calls. Those words are familiar, yet ring new to their ears. The confession holds a meaning that solidifies the place Skeppy’s made in his heart.

Their hands find each other. His palm cups so perfectly around Skeppy’s jaw, holding him in a way that was always intended. Skeppy gently wraps fingers around his wrist and kisses the tattered skin there, treating him as a perfect statue and not destroyed flesh. Bad flinches at the feeling, still unsure, but Skeppy’s lips remind him of what he’s long forgotten.

“I love you,” Skeppy whispers back. His voice holds promises untold. He repeats himself, words liquid thunder, and continues his worship of a broken man.


End file.
